does it not cut deep -
this love that is pillow dents,
once eroded into the fabric,
now lifting from the bed?
this love,
it removes their shape,
erased by morning,
their scent thinning until the air
forgets it ever knew?
this love that is music removed -
absent, stolen,
swallowed by a quiet so cursed
the room still hums
this love,
a painting scrubbed clean,
an image thought memorized,
now dissolving at the edges
memory loses its grip one sense at a time
does it not cut deep -
this grief without a body,
this love that moves like loss,
none yours?